


The Spinner's End

by Cluegirl



Series: The Moirae Set [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-17
Updated: 2011-10-17
Packaged: 2017-10-24 17:30:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/266041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cluegirl/pseuds/Cluegirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Severus makes a distillation, and sees a spy he never guessed might be watching.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Spinner's End

The potion turned the smooth, precise colour of butter, releasing a whiff of jasmine and cordite into the air, and Severus doused the flames beneath it with a twitch of his wand. For a second, it glowed, a kettle of sunlight in the gathering gloom of a Yorkish winter's evening, and even as the glow faded, it left behind it the familiar satisfied warmth of skill yielding perfection.

Severus had no personal use for _Felix Felices_ at this point in his life, of course; his luck was his own to make, at long last, and he had neither buyer waiting, nor master in need of it. He'd only brewed this cauldron full of ridiculously good fortune because he'd wanted to give it a try -- to see whether he could, now the war and its burdens weren't resting squarely on top of his shoulders. He'd tried it before, of course -- he'd wanted every edge he could get during the war, -- but the potion had never come together properly, no matter how carefully Severus followed the formula. At the time, he'd blamed Potter for it, and that blasted life debt hanging over his head, funneling his meager supply into that idiotically reckless daredevil child. Even a well pump needed a gratus measure to get the flow started, after all, and why should the draught of good fortune be any different? How could he concentrate his luck into a single dose when it was surely all going to keep the brat in his skin from day to day?

In retrospect though, Severus knew it was more likely that he'd been using up all his own luck just keeping _himself_ alive, and in the neighborhood of sanity. Now, though, the only threat Severus faced was boredom, and the occasional blood pressure spike when Man U were playing like idiots. And, so, of course, he had no trouble brewing that most precious of potions. He was safer than he’d ever been in his life, and only _now_ did Severus Snape have luck to spare.

He huffed a laugh, and scooped the dose into a bottle he'd charmed for the purpose.

It truly was perfect, he decided, holding it up to to inspect the colour, viscousity, and faint luminescence. He couldn't recall having made a lovelier brew in his life. Well… why not?

Taken by the sudden whim, Severus opened his mouth and tipped the dram in. It was warm, almost hot on his tongue, and when he swallowed, the effect was instantaneous. Not so much a taste, as a blazing flush of... something. Poise? No. Calm? Excitement? Balance? Certainty? No, none of those, and yet something of them all.

There was a strange tugging at Severus’ breastbone, as though something massive, and surprisingly powerful had awoken, was uncoiling itself from around his heart, and sniffing the air. He found himself drifting to the window, and tugging the tattered lace curtain aside to peer into the street. On the other side of Lachesis lane, beneath the shattered streetlight, a young man with wind-fretted hair tugged up his collar, turned on his heel, and shuffled toward Atropos Alley. The thing in Severus’ breast gave a surge of heat, and rumbled as if with hunger.

Severus caught his breath aloud. It was Potter! Slouching along the street, as though he’d as much right to be outside Spinner’s End as any miscreant from down the housing estates! Severus flung up the sash, and gasped at the vicious wind, the sound unraveling like a ghost above his head. It _was_ him. That riot of tumbled hair, the spectacles just barely glinting in the dark, the peculiar walk, half sinuous glide, half cocky strut that made the globes of his arse flex and roll in the snug caress of his jeans… Severus frowned, and quelled a shiver.

The boy passed beneath a working streetlight, and the wind plucked at the trailing end of his scarf as he turned up Atropos Alley. The colours of the Lion’s House strobed across Severus’ eyes like fireworks, and then the boy was gone. It was him.

For three years now, Severus had lived with the sense of being watched. At first it had nearly driven him mad – fevered and weak and very nearly helpless, he had slept wand in hand for weeks on end. Finally, pure exhaustion and a brush with pneumonia forced him into resignation. Whoever was watching him would attack, or they would not. He would be killed in some unguarded moment, or he would fight off his attackers, or he would see them coming and make an escape. Which, he would never predict, especially if he allowed the worrying to drive him mad. Severus had decided to put his efforts into keeping alive for as long as he was allowed to do so, and leave the matter of his unseen watcher for another day.

But the assassins never came, and neither did the aurors. Severus continued to wake up, day after day, throat un-cut, and hands un-fettered, sanctuary unpolluted. Eventually, although the occasional sensation of eyes upon him continued, Severus taught himself to hope that the eyes upon him might be friendly ones, or at least neutral. Some days he fancied the eyes belonged to Lily – ever his angel. Other days, when his temper was bad, Albus was the spy, twinkling and manipulating, even from beyond the grave. On other days, when Severus found himself shockingly, ridiculously, appallingly lonely, he imagined Regulus, or even Evan Rosier to be the unseen presence hovering just off the starboard rail of his life. Staring into the twilight as if he could track Potter’s footsteps, Severus found himself astonished that he hadn’t guessed it from the first. He had all but handed the boy his address over venom and hemorrhage, after all. Of _course_ Potter would have been the one to come looking. The boy could smell a mystery from a hundred miles away, and Merlin knew he’d never vexed himself over putting his perfect little nose into Severus’ business before!

It wasn’t anger, this heated flush that coursed through his body as he slid the sash closed again. His jaw didn’t ache with the urge to clench, his hands hadn’t knotted up tight around his wand, and while he thought he might be shaking just a bit, it wasn’t due to the effort of biting back any urge to curse, hex, or murder... it was because he wanted to laugh.

“Ridiculous,” he said, and turned from the window. Whether he meant Potter’s actions or his own, Severus did not wonder. Instead, he focused his attention on what, exactly, the young darling of the Wizarding World could possibly want down Atropos Alley. There wasn’t anything down there but a few derelict warehouses along the river, and a crumbling housing estate that the council had condemned some five years back. Not a pleasant area, even on a fine day. At night, alone and unknown to the local rough trade, only an egotist or an utter imbecile would go wandering around Atropos Alley.

Then Severus covered his face with his hands and swore.

It was _Potter_!

He cast a despairing look heavenward, then turned on his heel, and went to put on his warmest coat.

The strange creature in his chest seemed pleased about that.


End file.
